


Shock to the System

by sans_patronymic



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Someone buy Bulma Briefs a beer, i swear there's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-10 05:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: When bit of summer fun goes terribly wrong, Bulma is left to pick up the pieces, Trunks struggles to understand and Vegeta confronts old wounds.





	1. Chapter 1

“Now, remember,” Bulma said, tying off the last of the water balloons. “No throwing these at people or animals.”

“Aw, Mom!” Trunks protested.

“That’s the rule. You can hit buildings, trees, whatever else you want. No people, no animals and try not to break anything.”

“But that’s _boring_!”

Bulma smiled, remembering when the absolutely worst thing anything could ever be was boring. She shut off the tap and placed the last balloon onto the pile. She turned to Trunks, resting her hip against the edge of the sink.

“Tell you what, kid. I’ll put on a swimsuit, then you can hit me with ‘em.”

Trunks brightened at that, a grin spreading across his face from ear to ear.

“But go easy on me, promise? I’m your mother.”

“Promise!”

“Okay, you take these out on the patio, while I go change.”

She handed him the tub of bright, jiggling projectiles. Trunks held it reverently, his eyes wide with the possibilities. Oh, to be young again. It was heartwarming to know that water balloons held sway over all seven-year-olds, even ones that could fly.

“Can I throw one at Dad?”

Damn, she loved this kid. She looked out the kitchen window to the hammock where Vegeta was lying. He said that Saiyans could absorb solar photons to increase their strength, but the reality was he just liked a catnap in the sunshine, same as everybody.

“You can ask—see if he’ll let you.”

“‘Kay!” he yelled and scurried out the sliding door with his ammo.

It had been a while since the three of them had taken a day like this to just be together. Bulma had been busy with work and projects and Trunks, Trunks had school, and Vegeta hated anything that interrupted his training schedule. But the summer was already winding down, there were only a handful of hot, lazy days left, and the grocery store had had a sale on short ribs, mini-balloons and twelve-packs. It just made sense.

Upstairs, Bulma finished tying the swimsuit strap behind her neck and gave herself the once-over in the mirror. Not bad, if she did say so herself. Definitely MILF-material. A little water wouldn’t have done any harm to what she’d had on before, but it would be fun to give Vegeta an unexpected eyeful. She adjusted the fabric here and there, before declaring herself fit for service.

She had just started down the hallway when it happened: a blinding light through the windows, accompanied by the deafening roar of detonation. The floor jostled beneath Bulma’s feet, knocking her first against one wall, then the banister and finally to the floor. For a moment, she laid there, shell-shocked, confused to find herself face down on the rug, then, her mind put together three things—explosion, outside, Trunks—and she pushed herself back onto her feet.

The air downstairs was thick with plaster dust. The sliding glass door had shattered—the wall in which it was set, half-crumbled. Bits of drywall, broken dishes and shards of glass crunched beneath Bulma’s sandals as she picked her way across the remains of the kitchen.

She stepped outside, eyes anxiously scanning for whatever, whoever had done this. When she spotted someone standing at the far end of the yard, her heart stopped. It was Vegeta. He was breathing hard, his legs spread in a fighting stance, his hands still outstretched from the _ki_ blast that had reduced their patio to a smoldering crater. His face was twisted with hate, eyes still on his target. Bulma followed his gaze to the small figure curled in what had been the epicenter of the blast.

“Trunks!”

Bulma didn’t think she’d ever run so fast in her life. A slab of broken concrete scraped her shin as she slid into the divot where her son lay quaking from his father’s strike. She pulled Trunks into her arms and turned back to where Vegeta stood.

“_What the fuck?!_” she screamed, but Vegeta was already gone, a slash through the clouds the only evidence of his departure.

“Mom?” a tiny voice asked.

“Trunks—oh, honey—are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay.”

Trunks’s face was smudged with dirt and snot. Bulma looked him over frantically. No blood, no bruises, a miracle. She ran her hands through his lavender hair, stroked his cheek.

“Baby… what happened?”

Trunks looked at her, blue eyes limned in red. His lower lip warped and trembled.

“I only th-threw one… I didn’t th-think h-he’d get so m-mad.”

“Threw what, sweetheart?”

“A b-balloon.”

“A _water balloon_?”

He nodded. “H-he was s-sleeping. I w-wanted to see if I could h-hit him before h-he woke up.”

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

The tears were flowing now, drawing big, broad streaks through the grim on Trunks’s cheeks. A terrifying helplessness was building in Bulma’s chest. She had seen Vegeta angry countless times. He shouted, he blustered, he threatened to destroy the Earth, but she knew he would never, in a million years, do anything to hurt his son. Certainly not over a fucking water balloon. She thought about the look on Vegeta’s face. That hadn’t been anger. Bulma had no idea _what_ that was, but it scared the shit out of her.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“He… he’s gonna come back, right?”

With a sigh, Bulma sat down in the debris, the cut on her shin pulsing. She pulled Trunks into her lap and held him close, let him cry into her. In the distance, emergency sirens wailed.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first few hours after the blast, Bulma was the master of triage. The emergency crews and media hounds were dismissed with a juicy story about a generator sabotaged by corporate spies; Trunks was given a bath and a hot fudge sundae; and a few well-placed phone calls summoned a cavalcade of muscular friends, who were happy to help clear debris from her lawn. She guided it all with a steady hand and a steeled nerve that was in equal measures impressive and terrifying.

By late afternoon, however, the facade began to crack. The dust had settled, literally and figuratively, and the reality of the situation took hold. The same question lingered on everyone’s lips: _Why?_ The only man who could answer was gone. Gohan offered to go after him, but Bulma wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she found herself anxiously watching the skies, hoping to spot the contrail that signaled Vegeta’s return.

“Bulma?”

Krillin’s head appeared around the edge of the door. Bulma didn’t speak, staying as she was, curled up on the foot of her bed. As much as she appreciated how many of her friends had dropped everything to help her, she needed a break from their fussing. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone, but she figured they wouldn’t have sent Krillin after her if it hadn’t been at least an hour.

“Hey,” he said, once he spotted her.

“Hey.”

“We finished cleaning up. Your fridge is okay—we plugged it in in the hallway until your dad can check the wiring. I don’t know about the rest of the kitchen, though. It's kind of a wreck…”

“Thanks.”

Krillin stared down at his hands. His thumbs seemed engaged in their own, private wrestling match. Poor kid, he was way out of his element. For the umpteenth time since that morning, Bulma wished Goku were there.

“How’s Trunks?” she asked.

“I think he’s all right. Chi-chi’s got him and Goten watching some movie about turtles.”

“That’s good. Turtles are good.”

“Yeah…” Krillin’s thumbs declared a truce and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “How… How are you doing?”

“My husband just blew up half my house trying to annihilate our son over a water balloon and then took off without a word.”

“It does seem pretty extreme, even for Vegeta.”

“No shit.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—“ Krillin gave an impotent shrug. “I’m sorry, Bulma. I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” Bulma said, flatly, “You don’t have to say anything.”

She looked at Krillin, at the discomfort etched into the lines of his mouth and the pity in his eyes. She didn’t have to guess what that look meant. He felt sorry for her, not because she was hurting, but because just behind his attempt to comfort her, Krillin was itching to say ‘I told you so.’ Bulma buried her face into the mattress and sobbed. A great, choking howl that felt like disembowelment. Funny, she thought, it turned out she hated pity exactly as much as Vegeta did.

Krillin had told her so. So had everyone else. _He’s a bad man, a ticking time-bomb. A tiger can’t change its stripes. Once a killer, always a killer_. _Fine for a fling, but __marry__ the guy?_ And while they didn’t say such things anymore—at least, not to her face—Bulma knew most of the Z-fighters still considered Vegeta a latent threat. It didn’t matter how many years passed, nor how many birthday parties, sparring matches and backyard barbecues Vegeta patiently attended, he was an outsider and always would be.

The only person who had never told her she was crazy for loving Vegeta was Goku. And he was dead. She hated him for that, hated that he wasn’t here to put his arm around her and tell her there had to be a reasonable explanation, that Vegeta loved them both and whatever this was, they would work through it. She hated having to do this alone.

A hand was patting her shoulder. Slowly, Bulma pulled herself together—deep breath in, deep breath out. The bed shifted as Krillin sat down next to her.

“I don’t know if this helps,” he started, “But I don’t think Vegeta meant to hurt Trunks. I mean, Trunks has some skills, but he’s still just a kid. If Vegeta’d wanted to, he would have vaporized him.”

One of these days, Krillin’s foot-in-mouth disease would prove fatal.

“You’re right,” she said, “that doesn’t help.”

“Sorry… Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Your mom made some sandwiches and Chi-chi brought a casserole.”

“No, thanks,” Bulma answered, “I’m not really hungry. Can you just… could you guys look after Trunks for a little bit longer? I kind of just want to take a nap.”

“Sure thing.” He rose and started for the door. “Your parents invited us to stay for a couple days, so you’ll have half of Kame House right next door, if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Try and get some rest, eh?”

“Yeah.”

As soon as the door closed, Bulma crawled her way from the foot of the bed to the head of it, every inch, a struggle. This must have been what people meant by ‘bone tired’. She drew the wrong end of the comforter over herself, shut her eyes, and slept.


	3. Chapter 3

Someone was touching her face. Bulma took a sharp breath in, reflexively reaching to her husband’s side of the bed. A moment of confusion at finding it empty, before the events of the day washed over her once more. When Bulma opened her eyes, Trunks was standing at her bedside in his pajamas. The room was dark; outside the windows, night had fallen.

“Trunks?” she asked, groggily, “Wasswrong?”

“Grandma said if I couldn’t sleep, I should wake her up, but... I want you.”

“Couldn’t sleep? What time is it?”

The clock on the nightstand read eleven thirty-four. Bulma sat up with a groan. Her head pounded, a pointed reminder that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”

“That’s okay. Krillin said you needed to rest. I guess you did, if you slept so much.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and patted the space next to her on the bed. “Climb aboard, soldier.”

Trunk clambered up onto the mattress with a grin, kicking his way under the covers. It had been years since he’d wanted to sleep in her bed, a bittersweet thought. Bulma made a great show of fluffing the pillows, shaking out the comforter, snuggling down into the perfect spot. She put her arm around her son and drew him close.

“Grandma fed you dinner?”

“Yup.”

“You brush your teeth, wash your face, all that stuff?”

“Mhm.”

“Good kid.”

Bulma kissed the top of his head, lingering there a moment to breathe him in. Gone were the days of the milky, baby scent, but there was still something comfortingly familiar under the fruity shampoo, something that made her animal-brain thrum: _mine, mine, mine_. Maybe she spent too much time around Saiyans. Bulma gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“You used to sleep in this bed with me all the time.”

“I did? I don’t remember that,” he said, with just a touch of that grade school cynicism that marked such things as uncool.

“Seems like yesterday and a million years ago, all at once.”

Bulma had brought the wriggling, fussy infant to bed night after night more for her own sake, than for his. Her relationship with Vegeta had been at its worst. Barely on speaking terms, they passed one another in the hallway like ghosts. A mutual avoidance that hurt Bulma far more than she dared to admit. Most days, she wished Vegeta would have stayed gone, but at night, she’d rest her hand on Trunks’s tiny chest and let the gentle rise and fall of his breath remind her what the point of all this was.

“Mom?”

“Hm?”

“...Is Dad going to hate me forever?”

Good thing she was rich; this kid was going to need some expensive therapy.

“He doesn't hate you, baby. I think he—I don’t know what happened, but I know he doesn't hate you.”

“Then why would he...”

Trunks didn’t finish his question. He just curled on his side and laid his head on his mother’s chest. Bulma ran her hand along Trunks’s back.

“I don’t know if you remember this,” she began, “but when you were, oh, maybe three or four, you were scared of the dark. I mean _really_ scared. Like, kicking me in the face while I’m trying to tuck you into bed, scared.”

“I kicked you in the face?”

“Oh, yeah. Hard. You would get so upset, you couldn’t even tell me what was wrong; you just knew something was happening that you didn’t like and you wanted out. Took about three weeks to figure out what it was—thank goodness for nightlights.”

“So, you’re saying Dad blasted me because he was scared?”

“I don’t know why he did what he did, but that’s my guess. It doesn’t mean what he did wasn’t wrong. It was. And it certainly wasn’t your fault. And... maybe it wasn’t his fault either.”

“Like an accident?”

“Yeah, kind of like an accident.”

Trunks considered this for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

“You can’t be mad at someone for an accident,” he announced, as if laying down the law for the whole universe.

“No, but accidents can still hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt,” Trunks declared, almost dismissively, “I just don’t want him to be mad at me.”

Her boy, with his Teflon skin and his spun-glass heart. Bulma brushed the hair from Trunks’s forehead and kissed it.

“Mom, you’re not mad at me, are you?”

“Sweetheart! Why would I be mad at you?”

“...I threw the water balloon at Dad without asking first, even though you told me not to.”

“Trunks, I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but there is absolutely no way you can make what happened this morning be about someone being mad at you. It’s not your fault.”

Trunks frowned, looking every bit his father’s son.

“I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Trunks said. There was the grade school cynicism again.

“And your dad, you know he loves you?”

“I guess.”

“It’s true. I’ve heard him say it with my own two ears.”

“Mm.”

That grunt. Heaven help her if Trunks adopted any more of Vegeta’s conversational ‘skills’. She hugged him close and reached for the TV remote on the nightstand.

“How’s about a little bedtime story? I think there’s a _Lone Wolf and Cub_ marathon on channel thirty-six.”

“I like those,” Trunks said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fist.

Of course he did. Bulma switched on the TV. With the sound down low, the flickering light washed over them, bringing an almost mesmeric comfort. Slowly, Trunks’s eyelids drooped lower and lower. He drifted off, his head heavy against Bulma’s shoulder, while on screen, the wandering samurai rescued his son from blood-thirsty assassins.


	4. Chapter 4

Bulma crept out of bed as soon as she was sure Trunks was asleep. Her body had had enough of lying down and not nearly enough calories. Bleary-eyed and famished, she made her way downstairs. As she turned a corner, something caught her attention. In the dark of the living room, a figure hunched on the sofa, silent and immobile.

“Vegeta?” she said softly.

The overhead light switched on with a click. Vegeta gave no response, sitting with his head in his hands. Bulma stepped into the room with measured, cautious steps.

“Honey, can you hear me?”

Nothing. Bulma thought of the blast pit that was now her backyard, the rage she’d seen on his face that afternoon. Maybe Trunks could walk away from something like that without a scratch, but she couldn’t. Nevertheless, she moved closer.

“Vegeta?”

“…I can hear you,” he answered, his voice hoarse.

Gingerly, Bulma sat beside him on the couch. His face still buried in his hands, Vegeta’s shoulders shook in tearless sobs. Silence wrapped around them both, comfortless and cold. In the yellow glow of the overhead light, the living room looked dingy, suffocating.

“There was liquid on my face,” he said, at last, “I woke up and there was liquid on my face.”

“It was water. Trunks threw a water balloon at you.”

Vegeta gave a sad chuckle. “A water balloon,” he repeated, as if he’d just found out the monster in his closet had been a shoe.

Bulma laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. She kept it there, even as he flinched. When he raised his head, the expression in his eyes hit her like a gut punch. He looked hollow, haunted.

“You thought it was something else,” she said, an observation, not a question. She knew better than to push.

There was only one ghost that haunted Vegeta, one specter that had the power to terrorize the Saiyan prince, even after death. In the decade that she’d known Vegeta, Bulma had heard only fragmented stories of Frieza’s cruelty. Any part of it would have been enough to break the toughest person and she knew she had only scratched the surface.

Vegeta took a breath. He ran his hand over his face, across the back of his neck, against his scalp, as if he could massage away anxieties.

“Are you familiar with liquid air?” he asked. The calmness of his tone stood in eerie contrast to the rest of him.

Bulma shook her head.

“It’s part of the fluid in a regeneration tank—sort of a viscous plasma made mostly of oxygen and nitrogen. Technically, it’s breathable. In fact, it’s very efficient at oxygenating blood cells, but it burns like hell and the transition from breathing air to plasma is... deeply unpleasant, which is why most people are given respirators before being put in. But if you’re desperate, or if you’re particularly interested in torturing someone, a person can be submerged in it for any length of time and come out no worse for wear.”

“Oh, Vegeta...”

“And if you’re a really, especially nasty person, looking to be unmitigatedly cruel, you can suspend someone upside down in a tank of liquid air just up to here—“ He raised a shaky hand to the line of his mouth, “So they’re forced to breathe in half air, half plasma, while their whole body screams at them that they’re drowning.”

“I am so sorry.”

He was still for a moment, staring at the coffee table with unseeing eyes.

“Six hours, eighteen minutes. That’s my record—the longest I ever made it before I lost consciousness. I was in shock for three days afterwards.”

Drowning for six hours and eighteen minutes. Bulma wrapped him in an embrace and held him. What else could she do? In her arms, Vegeta trembled, convulsed at the memories which invaded his mind.

“Hey, you’re here now. Be here with me.”

He took a ragged attempt at a deep breath, letting the air out through his mouth in a sigh.

“You have a home,” she continued, “You have a woman who loves you. You have a son who thinks you’re the best—”

“Gods, _my son_.”

Bulma’s heart sank to hear the agony in his voice. 

“Your son is fine. He was just scared and confused—you should talk to him tomorrow.”

“..._How_?”

As if she knew; there was no parenting guide for _this_. She couldn’t even begin to fathom the pain Vegeta had been through. She could only guess how he was feeling for having lashed out at Trunks, the shame and anguish of being at the mercy of his brain’s misfired memories. And Trunks—he was a resilient kid, but he’d been terrified by the thought of losing his father’s love. What words could soothe that ache?

“Just... just tell him it’s not his fault. You didn’t mean to hurt him, you were only startled. And that you still... that it doesn’t change how you feel about him.”

“Mm.”

“He’s afraid you hate him.”

“I… could never hate him.”

“Then tell him that,” she said, “And maybe remind him that he should listen to his mother, when she tells him not to throw things at people.”

Vegeta gave an amused hum and shook his head. “I was vulnerable and he exploited it. It’s commendable.”

Bulma smiled, in spite of herself.

“And you?” Vegeta asked.

“You scared the _shit_ out of me. But I’m okay.”

“I scared the shit out of myself,” he confessed.

“I know. I figured that when you took off.”

Vegeta laid his head on her shoulder in apology and took her hand in his. They sat, listening to the wind rattle the plastic sheeting where their kitchen wall had been. The air was heavy with an uncomfortable truth: This might happen again. Accidents happened, children threw water balloons. Even if Vegeta knew every possible thing that might set him off, there was no guarantee he could avoid them. All they could do was talk to each other, be patient, maybe have the new sliding doors made of safety glass.

After a minute, Bulma made a declaration: “Actually, you know what? I’m not okay—I’m starving. Do you want to watch me shove deli slices in my face?”

“Of course.”

The fridge in the hallway was awkward and a little bit off-putting, standing like an enormous chrome sentry at the threshold of the kitchen. Beyond it, the light from the hall illuminated the conspicuous gap of capped pipes and half-crumbled drywall where there ought to have been counters, cabinets, a stove, a sink. Vegeta grimaced at his handiwork. 

“My mother’s been wanting to redo the kitchen anyway,” Bulma said. “Here—hold these.”

Some fridge-rummaging and a quest for a fork later, they were sitting at the dining table, Bulma snacking on cold cuts, while Vegeta polished off Chi-chi’s casserole, straight from the baking dish. There was a quiet harmony in moments like this. If only her friends could see him this way: the man who liked the crispy corners of a lasagna best, who watched her eat rolled up turkey slices like she hung the moon. Maybe then they’d get it.

“They’re here,” Vegeta remarked suddenly and, when she didn’t follow, added, “Kakarot’s spawn and the rest. I can sense them.”

“Yeah, they’re next door. They helped clean up. Chi-chi offered to kick your ass for me.”

That had been the most comforting thing anyone said to her all day. Chi-chi in clogs and a housecoat, ready and willing to kick the ass of a man who could destroy a planet. Bulma caught the hint of a smile on Vegeta’s lips.

“I’d like to see her try.”

“Something tells me you’ll beat yourself up enough on your own. No reason for anyone else to bruise their knuckles.”

“Hmph.” Vegeta stared at the bottom of the casserole dish, as if it held all the answers.

In the absence of a sink, they left their dishes on the table and headed up to bed. Vegeta kept a guiding hand on her hip as they navigated the darkened halls. Leading her, being lead, both were true.

The bedroom door creaked petulantly as it opened, revealing Trunks sprawled across the mattress, limbs splayed out like a starfish. It was incredible, really, how one small child could occupy so much space. They marveled at the sight.

When Vegeta lifted the boy in his arms, Trunks curled instinctively into his father’s chest. Sleepy hands gripped at the front of his shirt. Vegeta held him close, pressing his cheek to the top of his son’s head. Bulma envied his strength, that he could still cradle their little boy like that, as if he were an infant. For a minute, Vegeta simply stood there, eyes closed, and breathed.


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really, _really_ sure?” Trunks asked.

“Really, really sure,” Vegeta said.

“Really, really, _really_ sure?”

“Just hit me, already!”

Trunks gave the wind up and the pitch. The balloon arched awkwardly through the air, hitting Vegeta’s chest with a splat. For a second, the world held its breath. Nothing. No rage, no destruction, just a damp spot in the middle of his shirt. Father and son stared at the bits of broken rubber in the grass.

“…Can I throw another one?”

“As many as you want.”

There was that ear-to-ear grin again. Trunks let another balloon fly, and another, and another—red, green, pink, blue. But the first one had been charity, and now, Vegeta side-stepped the onslaught effortlessly. He stopped one mid-air, slowing it with a gentle pulse of _ki_, sending it back to burst on Trunks’s shins.

“Is that the best you can do? I thought I told you to hit me!”

He hadn’t been expecting the hose. Bulma took aim with the spray nozzle and fired. She only had a fraction of a second, but she made it count: Vegeta was dripping from head to toe. He turned to her, his movements menacingly slow. The expression on his face was one Bulma knew all too well; he’d had the same one the night Trunks was conceived. Dangerous, delicious.

“Son, hand me one of those,” he said, not taking his eyes off his target.

“Now, wait a minute,” Bulma pleaded, “Trunks, remember, I’m your mother.”

“Trunks, what did I say about traitors?”

“Show no mercy and expect none in return!”

Bulma backed slowly towards the house, finger on the spray nozzle’s trigger. “I’m warning you—I’m armed!”

It had been a while since they’d taken a day like this, just to be together. It was one of the last hot, lazy days of summer, the sort of day where a water balloon to the face can actually be refreshing. There were short ribs on the grill and beers in the cooler. The freshly laid lawn was coming along nicely. In the yard, Bulma tried to defend herself with the garden hose. Her attackers showed no mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too excited to share this one to keep posting in installments. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!


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